The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  On the other hand, he also wouldn't stumble blindly into the midst of one of these strange visitations that consumed her without mercy. The gods who tormented Mirabar didn't like interruptions, and he didn't like the heat of Otherworldly magic that permeated these scenes. He had felt it the other night—they had all felt it, here at Dalishar—when Mirabar's visions had spilled over into this world for once, filling the night sky with sound and fury, with images which she, at least, seemed to understand.

  "He is coming," she had said. "The next Yahrdan. Our work is not yet done."

  Najdan still felt queasy when he recalled those moments of wonder and terror. He didn't know how Mirabar regularly faced these things with such resolve, and he himself didn't want to come so close to them again. However, he also didn't like the thought of her lying somewhere out there, sprawled on the damp ground, easy prey to anyone or anything that might happen along.

  When dawn came, when he felt sure the visions must have passed and the thing she called the Beckoner must have retreated, Najdan went in search of Mirabar. He brought Sister Rahilar with him, because he didn't know what Mirabar would need, and it wasn't fitting that he, a man, should handle her.

  The Sister was rather pretty, in the almost-harsh way of shallah women, but she chattered far too much. He missed Haydar, his woman of many years. He hoped that she was safe and that the earthquake had not hit hard at Sister Basimar's Sanctuary.

  Najdan was scanning the hillside and ignoring Rahilar's vapid babbling when he spotted Mirabar lying in a heap, her fire-bright hair glistening with morning dew. Her long homespun tunic was hiked up, exposing her bare stomach. The modest pantaloons of a shallah female were now torn, leaving one golden knee naked.

  He turned his back on Mirabar and said to Rahilar, "Tend her." At least the woman was good at that.

  Rahilar arranged Mirabar's clothing and woke her with some smelling salts. Najdan knew Mirabar was well when she snapped, "Ugh! What are you doing?"

  "You had fainted," Rahilar murmured.

  "I did not faint. I was... hit on the head with a volcano."

  Rahilar looked at Najdan. He ignored her. "Would you care to return to camp now, sirana?" he suggested.

  "No, I'd like to sit on the damp ground in the middle of nowhere all day." Her eyes glowed almost yellow with bad temper.

  Yes, she would be fine. He had learned by now to expect a little crankiness after these encounters, as if she'd drunk too much wine or indulged in Moorlander cloud syrup.

  "Oh, my head," she said, cradling it.

  "I have something that will help that," Rahilar said. "Back at camp."

  "Camp..." Mirabar met Najdan's gaze. "Has he come?"

  Najdan knew whom she meant. "No, sirana. Tansen hasn't arrived yet."

  "Dar shield him," she murmured.

  "Yes, sirana." He had not prayed since his youth, but now he tried the words with an unaccustomed tongue: "Dar shield him."

  From Kiloran. From himself. From the earthquake. From his destiny.

  Yes, Dar had much to shield the shatai from.

  Chapter Seven

  To know is nothing at all.

  To believe—that is everything.

  —Kintish Proverb

  Tansen felt the re-opened shir wound throbbing at his side, draining his life away with the cold magic of a waterlord.

  It seemed like such a long time since he'd gotten this wound. Tansen remembered killing High Commander Koroll before collapsing. He'd never even seen the shir with which Koroll had done this to him. But he did remember one of his men later saying that it evinced Baran's distinctive workmanship, with its silver and jade inlays on a hilt of Kintish petrified wood.

  And Baran isn't even my enemy.

  Well, not back then. Perhaps he was now. Who knew? An immensely powerful waterlord, Baran was nothing if not unpredictable. And who could say which was more dangerous in Sileria, anyhow: a friend or an enemy? As Josarian had said: I can take care of my enemies, but Dar shield me from my friends.

  Tansen grunted in pain. Not from the shir wound, but from the memory of Josarian's death, which now returned to him with the pain of a sharp stab to his vitals.

  "Are you awake, siran?"

  He tensed with surprise, coming into his senses as he realized he wasn't alone. With tremendous effort, he opened his eyes. The world whirled dizzyingly for a moment, a cacophony of sight and sound as sunlit shadows flickered over rough stone and the unfamiliar voice spoke to him again.

  "Siran?"

  His eyes came to rest on the figure addressing him. Dark-haired, olive-skinned, brown-eyed. Short hair. Intricate indigo tattoos on the face, forearms, and hands. None on the torso, as a fair-skinned Moorlander might have.

  Sea-born.

  And young. Caught in that bewildering web between childhood and adulthood, but still clearly more boy than man.

  Memories started to drift back into Tansen's conscious mind. The ambush on the path to Dalishar, his collapse afterwards, the voice which had roused him, the sea-born boy who had helped him.

  What's he doing so far inland? And all alone?

  They were in a cave, hiding because Tansen was too weak to defend himself—let alone the boy who had helped him—and incapable of making the journey to Dalishar or to Sanctuary.

  What's your name?

  His lips moved, but no sound came out. The boy seemed to understand the problem and, lifting Tansen's head, held the waterskin to his lips.

  He choked briefly on the water, and his wounded side felt as if all the Fires of Dar were consuming it. His left hand burned coldly, too, and he now remembered the wound inflicted on it during his struggle with the last of the six assassins who'd ambushed him. He drank more, letting the water soothe his parched throat.

  "What's your name?" he croaked at last.

  "Zarien." The boy hesitated, then awkwardly crossed his fists over his chest and bowed his head. "I know who you are, siran."

  No surprise there. His swords and the brand on his chest made him easy to identify in Sileria, even without the jashar he wore around his waist.

  The boy's tattoos, Tansen knew, were like a jashar; but Tan was, after all, what the sea-born rather contemptuously referred to as "landfolk," and so he couldn't interpret them. "Family? Clan?" he asked, wondering whence this boy had come.

  "I... was raised by the sea-bound Lascari."

  "You're sea-bound?" Astonishment lent strength to his voice.

  "I was."

  "Ah..." He only knew a little about the sea-born folk. Even those sea-born who spent much of their lives ashore seldom came inland and rarely mingled with landfolk. He was aware, though, that the sea-bound clans were regarded as anything from slightly exotic to rigidly fanatical even by their sea-born cousins who willingly traversed the land. "This means... banishment from your clan, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, siran. I am dead to my people." The stern, youthful pride in the boy's expression dared Tansen to pity him.

  He finally noticed the bruises on the boy's face, and a fresh cut along his cheek. "What happened to you?"

  Zarien reached up to touch a bruise on his forehead. "The land shook."

  "Earthquake?"

  "Is that what it was?"

  "When the land shakes, yes."

  "The ground heaved. The cave walls moved. There were falling rocks." The boy frowned. "I'm not used to caves. I didn't know it was unsafe until it was too late. Anyhow, you were here, and unconscious..." He shrugged.

  Tansen didn't remember any of this. "You shielded me?"

  "I didn't know what else to do."

  "I owe you my life," Tansen said. However, it felt like there would soon be nothing left to collect of the debt. His body was immobile, his mind weak and sluggish with fever and blood loss.

  "It is my honor, siran," said Zarien.

  "All the same... I am... very grate..."

  Zarien lifted his aching head and gave him more water. It revived him, but less than it had before. He was weary, so wea
ry...

  His gazed drifted downward as he fought to stay awake. He caught his breath when he noticed the terrible scars on the boy's naked torso and realized what they were.

  "Dragonfish," Tansen murmured, remembering Armian's wounds. Only these scars were from a much, much worse attack. The beast's jaws had closed over the child's entire torso. Its broad teeth had sunk far into his flesh, Tansen judged, based on the width of the marks left behind. How in the Fires had the boy survived that?

  "Yes." Zarien took a deep breath and then blurted, "A dragonfish killed me during Bharata Ma-al."

  Tansen digested this, wondering if he was hallucinating. "And then?"

  "And then I was rescued by Sharifar—"

  "One of the nine goddesses of the sea."

  "Yes."

  A detailed hallucination.

  The boy added, "I thought that most drylanders didn't know the names of the sea goddesses." He sounded pleased with Tansen.

  So my hallucinations are blessed with accuracy.

  "I have a broad education," Tansen told him.

  "Of course, siran." Zarien continued, "And then Sharifar made a bargain for my life."

  The tale which followed was as compelling as it was extraordinary. The boy seemed sane enough, though Tansen didn't place a great deal of faith in his own judgment while he lay bleeding to death, feverish, weak, and confused. However, having seen Josarian emerge alive from the Fires of Dar to drive the Valdani out of Sileria, and having seen Kiloran's White Dragon emerge from the icy waters of the Zilar River to destroy the Firebringer, he supposed anything was possible.

  "I'm sorry," he said, aware of the boy awaiting his reaction. "But Josarian isn't your sea king. Not now, anyhow. He's dead."

  "Yes, I know that now. You told me yesterday."

  He vaguely remembered. "Was it only yesterday?"

  "I'm disappointed, of course," Zarien said. "But that is the way of the landfolk, isn't it?"

  "Hmm?"

  "To betray, to kill in vengeance, to fight among themselves."

  Tansen felt both depressed and irritated. "And the way of the sea-born is what?" he challenged.

  "To fight the dragonfish."

  He grunted and felt himself drifting away again. Tansen felt compassion for this boy, so far from home, bent on a seemingly impossible task in a world which did not welcome him. "But you're... a strong boy." Zarien had come this far. He had faced the bloody mess Tansen had left on the path to Dalishar. He had helped a wounded man to this cave and shielded him during an earthquake that must have scared him half to death. Tansen figured Zarien's chances of surviving were better than average. "Strong," he repeated, too weak to say the rest.

  "I am Lascari," the boy said, with a creditable attempt to sound casual.

  ...Tansen felt his face glow with pleasure at the compliment, but he shrugged it off like a man. "You have been away from the mountains for too long. Here, I am not special...."

  "There are ghosts here," Tansen whispered.

  "Where?" He heard apprehension in the boy's voice.

  "Don't worry," he murmured. "They are only my ghosts."

  "I don't understand."

  "No, I don't imagine you do."

  "I've been thinking, siran..."

  He closed his eyes, trying to decide what to do. Send the boy to Dalishar? Would he make it? To Sanctuary? Would he find it? If Zarien remained here, Tansen would probably die, whereas there was a slight chance that a Sister could arrive in time to save him... If a sea-born boy could find one and also remember where this cave was. Meanwhile, if assassins found them here together, the boy would certainly be killed.

  And Mirabar, he wondered with sudden, confused urgency. Was she safe? Was she even alive?

  His mind reeled as all of his fears now assailed him. How long before news of Josarian's death spread through the mountains and into the lowlands? How soon would panic seize people? Would the Valdani honor their secret treaty with the Alliance and withdraw from Sileria now that Josarian was dead? Could Elelar convince them to abandon Shaljir before they discovered that Sileria was about to descend into the inferno of civil war?

  Before they realize all they have to do is hold onto Shaljir long enough for us to destroy ourselves, and then—

  "Siran? This wound..." Zarien lifted a saturated bandage away from Tansen's side. He vaguely realized that the cloth was what was left of the boy's tunic. The lad continued, "If my mother were here, I think she would cauterize it. So perhaps I should try to build a fire, and—"

  "You can't cauterize it," Tansen interrupted, his vision swimming blackly. "It's a shir wound."

  "An assassin did this to you?"

  "No, a Valdan."

  "I thought only assa—"

  "It doesn't matter now."

  "No."

  With monumental effort, Tansen spoke again. "I want y—"

  "But if we cauterized it—"

  "Shir wound," Tansen repeated. He explained to the sea-born boy what any shallah knew. "Water magic. Put a hot poker to the wound, all you get is steam. Doesn't close or heal or stop bleeding."

  "The winds take me." Zarien's voice came from very far away. "What do we do?"

  "You've got to go—"

  "Go? No!"

  "Go to—"

  "I can't leave you."

  "Yes, you must. Go to—"

  "No!"

  He was too weak to argue. "Zarien..."

  "No, I won't." The stubbornness Tansen heard in the boy's voice made his heart sink.

  If assassins find you with me...

  "I've come all this way to find you," Zarien said. "I won't let you out of my sight now."

  This startled him enough to open his eyes. "Me?"

  "I thought it was Josarian, but now I know it must be you."

  "Me?" he repeated stupidly, falling through the dark night of death, barely able to hear the tattooed boy's desperate voice.

  "Yes. Don't you see? You're the sea king!"

  After three days of the Sister's care, Armian climbed out of the depths of his weakness and recovered with great speed.

  However, he remained adamant about not going to Mount Darshon to embrace Dar.

  "I've got to get to Shaljir," he told Tansen, in a voice which allowed no further debate.

  Tansen had never been west of Darshon in his life, let alone as far away as the capital city. "I will take you back to Gamalan," he offered. "My grandfather will know what to do."

  Armian decided not to wear his jashar while they traveled through Sileria. Both his mission and Tansen, he said, would be safer if no one recognized him. "So don't tell anyone. Understood?"

  "No, sira... No, Armian," Tansen corrected himself, for the Firebringer had insisted he accept the privilege of using his name. "I will die to protect your secret!"

  "You don't need to go that far," Armian said dryly. "Just use that blank-faced discretion the shallaheen are known for. Lirtahar?"

  "Yes." Tansen smiled, pleased that Armian was becoming more Silerian with every day he spent here. "Lirtahar."

  Armian let him look at the shir which had been concealed in one of his well-made boots the night he had washed ashore; but, of course, Tansen couldn't touch it. A shir could never harm its owner, which was why neither Armian nor any other assassin needed a sheath for his water-born dagger. If a shir belonged to you, you could even sleep with it tucked inside your clothes, its deadly blade as harmless as a kiss against your skin. However, just the whisper of its touch was terribly painful to anyone else. Even the waterlord who made a shir was vulnerable if the weapon was wielded against him. When Tansen tried to touch Armian's shir, it burned cruelly with the cold fire instilled in it by Kiloran, the great waterlord who had made it as a gift—a sign of trust, a mark of good faith—when Armian had been born to Harlon's woman.

  "I've come to find him," Armian said.

  "To find Kiloran?" Tansen breathed in awe.

  "Yes."

  "He lives in hiding, like all the waterlords,
ever since the Valdani Emperor swore he would destroy the Honored Society in his lifetime." He bit his lip when he realized Armian would already know this, since his own father, Harlon, had died after battling the Outlookers for years.

  "There are people who can help me find Kiloran," Armian said. "People who can make arrangements."

  "In Shaljir?"

  "It's called the Alliance. Have you ever heard of it?"

  "No."

  "Maybe your grandfather has."

  "I don't think so, Armian."

  "We'll ask him when we reach Gamalan."

  "Yes, of course," said Tansen. "He will know the best way to reach Shaljir."

  "Good."

  And after Armian found Kiloran, Tansen thought, perhaps then he would go to Darshon.

  It was late morning when Mirabar awoke, still groggy from the violent and restless night, but feeling considerably better than she had when Najdan and Rahilar had found her lying unconscious in the morning dew.

  Just once, couldn't I have visions in my own bedroll?

  With wakefulness came the weight of worry again. Where was Tansen? She knew he still hadn't arrived, because someone would have awakened her—

  She sat bolt upright when heard the shrill whistle of a sentry. Someone was coming up the southern path, identity still unknown. The southern path—the way Tansen would come, journeying here from Chandar.

  She leaped out of her worn bedroll, pulled on her shoes, and went outside. Lann was there, larger than life, his long Moorlander sword unsheathed as he waited in readiness for whatever would happen now. He was bearded, an unusual trait in Sileria, and now his head was wrapped in the bandage Rahilar had used on the injury he'd gotten while sleeping—of all things!—through the earthquake. He was from Emeldar, Josarian's native village, and had known Josarian his whole life. A boisterous, openly emotional man, he had wept piteously upon seeing the Firebringer die at the Zilar River. Lann always wept when his friends died.

  "Someone is coming," Najdan said, trying to force Mirabar back into her cave.

  She resisted, "Yes, I heard. It might be—"

  "It might be anyone," he interrupted.

  She was about to argue when another signal from the sentry riveted her attention. "A friend," she said, praying to Dar that it was Tansen.